


Sheets of Silk

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Orgasm, Dubious Consent, Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine was used to nightmares. Some nights they came with the scent of salt and the cries of gulls. Some nights they might come in the guise of the devil on sheets of silk.</p>
<p>
  <i>Javert comes into contact with sex pollen. Only the mayor can help.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheets of Silk

**Author's Note:**

> I blame voksen's evil powers of suggestion and trickery. >:(  
> (This is more than 3 paragraphs. Where is your part of the deal now? :P)

He only realized that something was not quite right when he was already halfway up the stair that led to his bedchamber. He had not wondered at the quiet, empty house; his housekeeper would have retired already, for once more work had kept him in the factory hours past dusk, but she would have left him a pot of stew in the kitchen, or at least some meat and bread and cheese.

No, it was a common enough occurrence that he had not even thought twice about the silence, though if he had visited the kitchen first, he might have wondered to find all signs of a hasty retreat from the room that was usually left clean and neat.

He did not wonder either to find the door to his bedchamber slightly ajar; perhaps he had forgotten to close it in the morning, or his housekeeper had seen fit to wash his linens. But there was a heap of dark fabric on the stairs, and it was no linen; when he came closer, he recognized the dark, worn broadcloth, and sudden fear welled up in him. That was the greatcoat of Javert.

It made no sense, he thought, lingering on the stair as his blood roared in his ears, staring at the coat with overwhelmed trepidation. How did such an item come to be here, in his home? Why was it abandoned here, on the steps – unless this was some elaborate game? Had Javert finally realized just who it was who hid behind the mayor's mask?

And yet, if that were the case, would not Javert have waited for him with drawn pistol, instead of leaving a trail of clothes as if to warn him away?

The only sound he could hear was his panicked heartbeat as he forced himself to scale the final steps. Perhaps Javert was indeed waiting for him, weapon drawn, shackles in hand. Perhaps Javert simply wanted to enjoy his triumph, and so had decided to draw it out in such a way. Perhaps–

He did not dare to breathe as he opened the door very slowly, just wide enough to be able to see what was hidden behind. The room was empty, he thought at first, exhaling with a shudder of relief. Once more he would spend a night as a free man. Once more he would wake and know the memory of salt and toil and bleak misery to be a nightmare.

Then his gaze came to rest upon his bed, and he drew in a startled breath, frozen with terror at the sight he found there.

On the bed, Javert reclined. The sheets he was resting on looked sleek and shiny, Madeleine thought with detached hysteria. Were these the silken sheets a buyer from Paris had pressed on him as a gift? That had to be silk, he thought, studiously ignoring the way Javert was stretched out on the sumptuous fabric, all threatening, lean power. It had to be the silk, but why would his housekeeper put those sheets on today when she knew that he had ordered her to put them away? What use had he for such luxuries when even in this town where he did his utmost to cure all misery, children would have gone to bed hungry tonight, and would wake hungry again in the morning?

“Monsieur,” the apparition that looked like Javert said. “I have come to ask for your assistance.”

Madeleine rested one hand against the doorway, concentrating on the smooth, hard wood beneath his hands, the way the silken sheets gleamed slightly in the light, the way Javert's shirt had been allowed to fall open, cravat discarded, giving Madeleine a good view of curls of dark hair trailing downward from that firm, flat chest, the pale throat clasped tightly by the supple, well-worn leather stock.

He opened his mouth, found that no sound would escape, then swallowed. “Javert.” He did not know how to continue. Again his eyes came to rest on the leather that lined Javert's throat. With the shirt half undone, the stock looked strangely indecent. Madeleine could not say what it was, only that the leather was too dark, Javert's throat too pale, that the stock was too tight, that it should not shift and move in such subtle ways when Javert swallowed or took a deep breath, or cause such thoughts in a man's mind that nearly made him blush, for he thought how very much like a collar the stock looked at this moment, and then thought of Javert, the fierce watchdog, leashed; or of what it would be like to run his fingers along the leather to feel the smoothness of it, and the heat of Javert's skin, and of tightening the collar until Javert's pulse would flutter and beat against his fingertips with every shallow, constrained breath Javert would take.

Madeleine exhaled and shuddered, then raised a hand to his brow.

“Monsieur le Maire.” Javert's voice was dark and slightly breathless. “I have come to report on... on a most egregious crime.”

“You have come to report _in my bedchamber_?” Now it was more than just a tinge of hysteria that colored his voice, but that, Madeleine thought, his eyes still lingering on Javert stretched out on his bed – stretched out on his bed on silken sheets – that could certainly be forgiven, given the circumstances.

Javert's throat worked as he swallowed, and despite himself Madeleine watched with fascination how the pale, vulnerable skin shifted against the dark leather.

“Monsieur,” he said again, raising his head with stubborn determination, “it is a report of the utmost importance. It could not wait until the morning.”

“But, Javert, why...” Madeleine gestured at the bed. He did not dare to enter the room further. It all seemed too unlikely. He would have been less surprised to find the king in his bed, he thought, and then had to bite back the laughter that threatened to escape as his hysteria rose once more. No, in fact he would have preferred to find the king in his bedchamber. Certainly he would have had a better reason for it than Javert, whom he could only barely tolerate in his office. To think of Javert in his home was a nightmare; to think of Javert in his bed seemed little more than a vision sent by a tormenting demon, a taste of the hell that he now was more certain than ever awaited him.

“Monsieur.” Javert managed to sit up a little, his shirt gaping open further, sliding down his shoulders to bare more of the flat, wide chest to Madeleine’s eyes. His skin gleamed with perspiration, and for a moment Madeleine wondered whether Javert had fallen ill. Certainly that would explain this – Javert was the sort of man who would insist on reporting on an arrest even if he suffered some illness; maybe he had been injured and his housekeeper had insisted that he lie down before he fainted in her kitchen...

Javert's eyes were bright, unfocused; yes, a fever would explain all of this. Madeleine carefully stepped closer.

“The contraband has been confiscated. The smugglers are behind bars already, monsieur. It went very well.”

“I see, Javert. And you have no injuries to report?” Another step while Javert watched from dark, dazed eyes, swallowing again so that the black leather at his throat moved, hypnotic in the contrast of dark stock against pale skin. He reached out very carefully when he stood next to the bed, so as to not startle Javert who was breathing heavily, and indeed he found that his skin was too warm and clammy with sweat when he pressed his fingers to his forehead.

“What happened, Javert?” he asked again. This time his voice was soft, and when Javert looked up to meet his eyes, he nearly trembled at the despair that looked back at him from pupils so wide it seemed like Javert's eyes were all black, all bottomless, terrible hunger. Javert moistened his lip with his tongue, tilted his head a little, and Madeleine stiffened when he suddenly found himself cupping Javert's cheek, fingers sliding easily into sideburns that were startlingly rough and soft at once against his hand.

“Javert...” Now it was he who sounded helpless, and Javert turned his head further, until his lips were just a hair's breadth away from his wrist, the hot air he exhaled stirring the cuff of his shirt, ghosting against his skin until he could feel the throb of his own blood beneath.

A soft sound escaped Javert, and for a moment, Madeleine thought that he would lean forward to press that warm tongue to his pulse, taste him like an animal, and the image made him shudder with something that was not entirely revulsion.

“No injuries, monsieur.” Javert's mouth was still close to his skin – it would not take much at all for those lips to brush against his wrist, he thought, then thought of pulling away, and found that he could not, that he was rooted to the spot with terror and disgust and a terrible, terrifying heat spreading within him where cold emptiness had reigned for so long. It held him captive, made him want to remain, to test himself against chance and see whether his luck would hold or whether now he would truly, irredeemably damn himself and be lost forevermore.

“Only... I do not feel quite well. I apologize, monsieur. I suspect it must have happened when we apprehended the smugglers. One of the parcels they transported was slashed open – I might have breathed in some of the powder contained within.”

Madeleine frowned when Javert turned his head to look at him once more. A part of him felt relief that the brush of air against his skin was gone, although to have that dark gaze focused on him was just as unsettling, when Javert had never looked at him with anything but suspicion before.

For a long moment, Javert remained silent, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the silence between them grew until Madeleine felt it like a heavy weight upon his back, a rock threatening to crush him. He took a step back – and then Javert's hand shot out, clenched around his wrist, and Madeleine, who had waited for this moment since the inspector had first set foot into Montreuil-sur-Mer, waited with horrified fatalism for the condemnation that was certain to come, the chain to follow the clasp of his hand.

“Monsieur, you do not understand.” There was a fevered earnestness in Javert's voice that was entirely new. “I cannot – I am not injured. But also, I am not well. Please...” He paused to lick his lip again, and Madeleine watched, horrified to hear Javert beg, horrified for how the heat within him spread with sudden, sick fascination at this aberration. “Please, monsieur. I cannot bear it. I thought I would perish from this, before you came...”

Madeleine shuddered again, heard himself speak as if in a dream. “Javert, you ought to see a doctor. I shall call for one immediately–”

“No!” Javert's hand tightened around his wrist, and what carefully controlled calm the man had still possessed shattered. Now both of his hands clutched at Madeleine, and his face was raised imploringly, flushed and gleaming with sweat, his eyes wide and dark and lost. “Monsieur, if you leave – I shall go insane. Please, I cannot–”

Madeleine exhaled, and if the air escaped him with what must have almost sounded like a groan, then at least Javert seemed too far gone to realize what his plea was doing to Madeleine.

“Water. I – I shall fetch you a glass of water.” Madeleine swallowed as Javert's hand released his wrist, only to come to rest against his thigh, brazen and hesitant at once in the way that he could feel the trembling of Javert's fingers.

“Do not leave,” Javert said, his fingers spreading until his fingertips touched Madeleine's prick, who trembled when he found himself suddenly, shockingly hard. “Monsieur.”

This time, Madeleine found that he could not pretend that it was not an invitation, not with Javert's fingertips touching his hard cock, not with the way Javert's eyes darkened, his lips parted, his gaze sliding downward to glance at the way the creases slowly vanished as the fabric of Madeleine’s trousers was forced to stretch across the growing shape beneath.

Javert swallowed audibly, and for a moment Madeleine imagined that firm mouth more used to voicing condemnation softening, imagined it sweet and yielding around his cock. He thought that Javert too must know his thoughts, for there was a flush on his cheeks and a wildness in his eyes, but instead of pressing that mouth to his prick to do the sort of penance Madeleine had never allowed himself to dream of receiving after he had carved Toulon from his memory, he released Madeleine, and slowly moved back on the bed, the urgency of his own need more apparent than ever in the thick shape that stretched beneath his trousers until Madeleine thought the cheap, worn fabric would split apart and reveal all of him.

Now, Madeleine thought, now was the time to leave this room, to call for a doctor, for anyone, just so that he would not be alone with this mirage of sin and temptation spread out on his bed as if the devil himself had appeared in Montreuil to tempt him. Now was the time to leave Javert, to walk through dark, quiet streets and let himself into the church to spend the night on his knees on cold stone.

He would pray, he thought, and could not understand why instead, he reached out, his mind carefully clean of every thought, until his fingers pressed against Javert's lips, tracing their shocking softness until he could not stand anymore, and Javert moaned in answering despair and drew him down onto the bed. He came to rest between Javert's legs, their cocks aligned despite the layers of cloth between them so that a moan of his own escaped him at the impossible thought of wrapping his fingers around that large prick straining against him.

“Monsieur,” Javert said again, his breath hot against Madeleine's lips, his eyes still wild, a strand of hair clinging to his forehead so that Madeleine found himself sliding his fingers into his hair, releasing the ribbon that held it bound until he could spread it out. “Fuck me. Please.”

Another shudder ran through Madeleine. He pressed his palm to Javert's prick, squeezed it awkwardly through his trousers, rubbed at the damp spot until his fingers were sticky with the fluid that seeped through the fabric, and Javert arched up beneath him with a helpless groan.

“Please, monsieur,” he said again, and this time his hands were in Madeleine's trousers, and Madeleine found he could not speak, not when those large hands drew out his prick and wrapped around him, rough and strangely respectful at the same time, as if Javert had not done this before. He did not know why the thought made him want to kiss Javert, only that he had never done that either, and when Javert's thumb pressed against the ridge of his cock, he pressed his lips to Javert's mouth and swallowed the startled groan that drew from him.

“Please,” Javert said against his lips, “please, I cannot – help me, monsieur, you must – I will–”

Madeleine was breathing heavily when he drew back, looking down at himself, where Javert's hand was still closed tightly around him so that the only the head of his prick jutted out from his fist, wet and dark and obscene.

“Javert,” he said again, helpless. Javert's fingers pressed against the small slit, slicked the wetness there all over him, and then Javert pushed his fingers into his own mouth to suck his fluids from them with quiet concentration and a sound of enjoyment that made his cock jerk against his stomach.

“Do it, monsieur,” he said a moment later, his voice still firm enough to make it sound like a challenge, although his unbound hair softened the edges of his features and gave him a sudden, new vulnerability that had Madeleine frozen even as Javert twisted beneath him to turn onto his stomach. “I cannot bear it – it hurts if you do not touch me. Please.”

Madeleine bit back a sound of shock at the display that was Javert pushing down his own trousers, flushed and panting as his cock dragged against the silken sheets. Again he hesitated, and then Javert moaned low in his throat and turned his head, his thighs sliding apart as if he – Madeleine's thoughts faltered. As if he were offering himself, and then he found his hands on his own trousers, sliding them down with barely veiled haste, as if he were indeed considering Javert's proposition.

His hand came to rest on Javert's back, his fingers splayed against the protruding knots of his spine. Another sound escaped Javert at the touch, and he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. “Monsieur, you show mercy to the most undeserving. Show mercy to me today,” Javert said. His head turned far enough that Madeleine could see the hunger in his dark eyes, and all of a sudden, he faltered, held out a hand, thought of the altar and the cold stone of the church again.

“Javert, we do not have–”

“I will die,” Javert said, and this time there was something approaching fury in his voice, the words clipped and short. “Monsieur. Does your mercy reach so far that you would condemn me to death? Out of mercy?”

Madeleine forced himself to look at him, although even now, a part of him still thought that he should stand and leave. “Javert, I do not think...” His voice trailed off, and then Javert turned, his face determined, brows tightly drawn together with the same inflexible stubbornness Madeleine had so often cursed him for, only now, the curse that was drawn from him came out as a moan when Javert's hand closed around his cock once more, and that firm mouth opened around him to pull him into sweet, soft heat.

Madeleine found he could not argue anymore when Javert sucked on him with furious determination, his tongue teasing at the slit as if to draw more of the slickness from him, swallowing it down with more of the quiet sounds until Madeleine had to clutch at his shoulder, his hair, feeling as if he was going to faint, or fall, or–

Javert released him, his lips so swollen and red that Madeleine found himself reaching out to press the pad of his thumb to them to reassure himself that this was indeed Javert who had done this thing for him, that it was Javert who could feel so good, soft and wet and – He exhaled with a shudder.

“Please just fuck me, monsieur.” Javert's teeth clenched. “Please. I cannot bear this.” He kept his eyes on Madeleine, then reached out for his shoulder, and slowly, deliberately, pushed him backwards, until Madeleine found himself on his back. Javert moved to straddle him, his eyes so dark and wide that Madeleine wondered if Javert was seeing him at all – and then Javert gripped his cock, steadied it, lowered himself, and despite the slickness of Javert's saliva on his prick Javert's body was so tight that Madeleine drew in a startled, pained breath at the friction

“Javert,” he said, because he did not know what else to say, rested his trembling fingers against Javert's waist, felt the heat of his skin – the heat _within_ him, and – “Christ, _Javert_!” Now he slowly sank deeper, felt Javert turn to softness, yielding around the ache of his hard prick in a way that made him bite his lip lest he keep talking, lest he keep begging the way Javert had begged. Only Javert was all silence now, Javert had closed his eyes, tilted his head back, his chest heaving with his labored breathing as he began to move, and the feeling of it was incredible, so much tighter than the clasp of Javert's hands, so much softer than his calloused fingers had been.

He smoothed his hands up and down Javert's thighs, then reached out to curl his fingers around Javert's prick, hesitant, strangely fascinated by the weight of it, the heat and softness of his skin. At the touch, Javert's eyes opened, and there was something almost frightened in them, a vulnerability he had not seen before as Javert panted, pleaded again, “please, monsieur, please,” the plea turning into a choked sob and then his spend ran wet and hot through Madeleine's fingers, dripped onto his stomach.

Javert leaned forward, still breathing heavily, groaning once when Madeleine's cock slipped free. “Oh... Oh _God_ , it still hurts!” he gasped and lowered his head against Madeleine’s shoulder for a short moment. Madeleine slid his fingers up his thigh, found his hole, found him loose and hot and grateful enough for the pressure of two slick fingers within that Javert muffled a whine against his skin.

“Turn around, Javert,” he said, his voice tight. When Javert had positioned himself on his hands and knees again, trembling and flushed and wanting this enough to moan again when Madeleine forced three fingers inside, slickening him with his own spend, he rested a trembling hand on his back, slid it upwards, hooked a finger behind the leather stock to pull Javert's head up by it as he pressed the head of his cock against the slick muscle. Javert stretched around him easily, and his panting was loud enough to cover the small sound Madeleine could not hold back as Javert's body yielded to him once more, taking all of him as he pressed inside with quiet, slow determination. He should not, he thought again, he should not, he should have called for a doctor, he should have spent the night praying, he should have – his hand found Javert's prick again, closed around him solely for the choked groan this produced, wet fingers sliding easily up and down until he squeezed around the crown, thumb toying at the thick ridge again and again until Javert trembled and his pants sounded almost pained, and Madeleine felt the tightening of the hot body draw his own release from him.

When it was done, he bent his head, but although the gesture was one of prayer, or asking for forgiveness, there was no one to pray to in this room, just the heat and the sweat of Javert's skin against his forehead. Javert did not move and held himself perfectly still, although a shudder ran through him when Madeleine finally slipped from him. Perhaps it would be enough now, Madeleine thought, breathing in the scent of his skin, forbidding himself the temptation of pressing his lips to those sharp shoulder blades, licking along the indentation between, where sweat had gathered. Maybe Javert would leave now, and all of this would be forgotten, a vision brought about by drugs, never to be mentioned or even thought of again.

Instead, when he lay down for a moment to gather his breath, pressing trembling fingers to his brow, covering his eyes as if refusing to see would undo what had happened, Javert stretched out by his side, and he did not need to speak to show that whatever had happened to him was not so easily overcome when his prick was aching and hard and hot like a brand against his thigh.

Madeleine swallowed again. “Are you still unwell, Javert?” he asked after a moment. All that answered him was silence, and the harsh sound of Javert's breathing. “I shall call for the doctor now. A dose of laudanum will do you–”

“Monsieur.” Javert forced the words out through clenched teeth. “You will do no such thing. I do not deserve a doctor's care for...”

Madeleine bit his lip. The silk was stained with dark, ugly patches; Javert did not need to finish the sentence to show him the reason for why it would be impossible to invite a witness to their sin into his home.

“I have a bottle of brandy, Javert.” He spoke the offer quietly, felt Javert shiver with tiredness, felt his cock slide slick and hard against his skin. Javert shifted again, drew in a breath with a sound that was almost a hiss. He did not want Javert drunk and suffering in his home. But he also did not want any more of this. It had to stop eventually, he thought, it had to. How much more could a man bear?

“Monsieur, you ought not...” Javert faltered, then turned his head, closed his eyes, his forehead creasing with great agitation as his breath escaped in hot little puffs of air against Madeleine's shoulder, scalding him even through the fabric of his shirt. “I have watched you for a long time, monsieur. In my thoughts, I held you as less than you are, I accorded you no respect, I suspected you of terrible things, accused you of baseness in my mind, I–”

“Enough, Javert!” It broke out of him with such force that terror filled him at the sound of his fearful voice; he had given himself away; that was the cry of a guilty conscience. Certainly now, Javert would find his suspicions true, now that Javert had proof of how impossible it had been for him to resist sin, how all the good deeds he had done had been nothing more but varnish on a soul filled by darkness for so long; would not a man who took advantage of another man's vulnerability be the sort of man who took a child's rightfully earned money, who would–

“There, you see it, monsieur!” There was a new, fevered determination in Javert's voice, his eyes alight with torment and fear and still that same stubbornness Madeleine had damned so many times before. “It was wrong to think such thoughts of you, a magistrate! I was prideful; I overstepped myself; I have done you wrong, monsieur, and I freely admit it! Take your revenge now, ask of me what you will.”

Again Madeleine hesitated, and at last Javert rose up on his elbow to look down at him, his face set, all sharp, narrow lines and the gleam of fanaticism. “Set my mind to ease, monsieur. Do what is your right as my superior; I suspected you of being less than even the beggars in the street; show me now that I am wrong, that you are my superior in truth, that you have never doubted your right to have me serve, that–”

“Javert. Enough.” He raised a hand to put a stop to those words that came spilling from Javert's mouth; he had not, he thought with new, horrified panic, intended to press his fingers to Javert's mouth, test the way those harsh lips could turn to softness; had not intended to have Javert suck his fingers into his mouth, draw on them with quiet, focused intensity; had not – but Javert had made it very plain what was at stake here. Javert had already suspected, and his mind spun, twisted, even now sought of a way to escape – he should leave the town, what if Javert made inquiries, Javert had almost arrived at the correct conclusion, if he gave him one further reason to doubt, Javert might send to Paris...

And then Javert moaned and pressed his tongue flat against his fingers, the slick heat of his prick dragging once more over Madeleine's skin, and there was his way out, he thought, hysteria rising within him again at the path Javert had shown him. How could he take advantage of Javert? He ought not; he ought to call for help, send a doctor, then spend the night in prayer – and yet Javert wanted to be taken advantage of, and if he left now, would those questions, those suspicions not fester in the inspector's mind? Could he leave Javert now, could he expose his shame to a doctor, and know that this shame would turn an already suspicious mind to outright hatred?

He pulled his fingers from Javert's mouth, traced those lips again, prayed that Javert would pay no mind to how his own hand was shaking.

“No more of that, Javert,” he said, and it seemed like a nightmare in truth now, the way his voice was firm, the way heat spread through his veins once more at the way Javert looked at him with dazed hunger.

“Monsieur, let me...” Javert reached out for his cock, and Madeleine clenched his teeth to hold back a sound, brushed that hand away – patiently, firmly, all magistrate – and this time, it was his hand on Javert's shoulder, it was he who forced Javert onto his back, and it was his own hand that took hold of his prick, biting back another sound at the heat of him, the way he was flushed dark with blood. He followed the vein upward with his thumb, heard Javert hiss when he toyed with the ridge, lingered there, rubbing slow circles for the tormented sounds Javert made, the way the muscles of his stomach stood out in a hard relief, contracting as he tried to control the urge to move.

“Monsieur.” The word was a choked sob, and Madeleine might have felt moved to mercy, if his thoughts were not still circling around Javert's suspicion, the need to erase those words he had spoken.

There was a deep, horrified pleasure in watching Javert's fingers claw at his sheets as he thrust into the tight grip of his fist, his skin so hot against Madeleine's slick fingers that Madeleine almost felt pity, had the fear that clawed at his own heart not outweighed all compassion for a servant of the state at that moment.

Compassion came later that night, when Javert was exhausted, when all pride had been drawn from him, when his face was wet with tears and he sobbed when Madeleine's fingers touched the sore skin of his prick, and he pleaded hoarsely when he did not.

It was getting easier now, Madeleine thought, noting with exhausted despair the song of birds outside, and the way the twilight before dawn had spilled into the room. The breaks Javert was afforded were longer, the hunger within him had dulled – it was getting better, he told himself, too exhausted now to fear, or to think of sin.

Javert had softened slightly. His eyes were still glazed, unseeing, tremors running through his sweat-slick body even when he was not touched. He, too, was so exhausted now that when Madeleine bent forward to suck his cock into his mouth, he did not even have strength enough to protest, save by resting a trembling hand against Madeleine’s shoulder. Madeleine ignored it, as he ignored the shocked, pained sound Javert made, keeping his thoughts carefully blank as he pressed his tongue against the small slit, swallowing down the sparse slickness that welled up when he teased at it.

This time, when Javert came, he was too far gone to speak. All that escaped was a sound of torment from deep in his throat, choked and thick with tears as his prick jerked against Madeleine's tongue who swallowed around the sore head, although Javert had spent himself so copiously, so numerously hours ago that there was nothing on his tongue save for that faint trace of bitterness he had sucked from him earlier.

Maybe it was truly over now, Madeleine thought, keeping Javert in his mouth until he had fully softened, until Javert was no longer trembling with need but solely with the ache of sensitive, sore skin. Maybe now they would sleep, and when they woke, they would not speak of it again, until over time, it would become but a nightmare in truth.

Instead, after they had slept, he woke to find Javert stand by his side, pale and drawn, dressed once more, his gaze respectfully lowered. He thought that he should inquire how Javert felt, ought to send him to the hospital now; instead he found that he could not make himself care about the inspector's well-being, not now, not after what he had already done for him.

“Well, Javert?” he asked, and if his voice was sharper than usual, Javert pretended not to notice.

“Your sheets, monsieur. I ruined them,” he said, and Madeleine felt fury rise within him. Would he never be free of this man's stubbornness?

“And you feel you need to pay for them, Javert? Apologize, offer recompense?” The words woke memories, so that he almost flinched when he thought of that mouth around his cock, lips spread wide to allow him to sink into impossible heat and softness. His jaw clenched; then he forced himself to relax, to speak softly. No more of that. No more guilt, no more apologies. No more of this devilish presence in his own home.

“It does not matter, Javert. No, it does not,” he said when Javert started to protest. “Please. I am exhausted, I tell you it matters not to me and I wish you would heed the order of a superior without forcing me to repeat myself. Return home, Javert. Sleep.”

“As you say, monsieur.” Javert bowed, his brow creased; he did not meet Madeleine's eyes, nor did he look at the sheets Madeleine was certain were irrevocably ruined. And that was well, too. He had no need of them, had not had a need for them before, and certainly not after this. He would tell his housekeeper to burn the sheets; Javert would have better sense than to ever mention this again, and in time, when he thought of this, it would be with the horrified shudder a man felt when he contemplated a nightmare that had once visited him.

Madeleine was used to nightmares. Some nights they came with the scent of salt and the cries of gulls. Some nights they might come in the guise of the devil on sheets of silk. In the end, the light of the dawn ended all nightmares, and in the light of the sun, there was work to be done in Montreuil for its mayor.

He slept again, and this time, he did not dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Also if you have made it through all of this you should really go and [look at mairewolf's sex-pollened Javert in leather pants art](http://mairewolf.tumblr.com/post/92348692406/bonshoir-monshieur-le-maire-turns-out-i-cant) because leather pants Javert is the best and this is amazing! <3


End file.
